Leah boarded the ship. She was barefoot. I had given her a briei, woolen slave tunic, which came high aboul her hips; it was sleeveless; it was split to the belly, belted with binding 6ber. She carried, in a sleenskin bag, over her shoulders, much ot my gear. I indicated to her the bench beneath which she mlght put it. She wore the black collar of the north She turned and lelt the ship, going down the gangplank, to fetch more of my things. She walked well. She knew my eyes were on her, the sleek she-sleen. I enjoyed owning her.
I looked again out to sea. Last summer, in journeying to the forests, to attempt to rescue Talena; I had, in a tavern in Lydius, encountered a wench once known, Vella, Elizabeth Cardwell. She had made a delicious paga slave. I recalled her, licking my lips. Intent on the rescue of Talena, not wishing to be burdened by another wench, I had not yielded to the entreaties of the girl to buy her and free her. What a stupid request, I thought, to make of a Gorean male. It would have occurred only to an Earth girL But if Elizabeth was stupid, or, more likely, naive, she was at least pretty. I thought then, too, of Talena. She had been disowned by Marlenus of Ar. But she lived now in Ar, sequestered. She had insulted me in Port Kar. I smiled. I had left Vella, Elizabeth Cardwell, slave in Lydius. She had once, against my wishesj fled the Saridar, when I had wished, as a foolish Earthling, to return her to her home planet, for safety. Such a courageous act on her part had not been without its risks. She had fallen slave. I had met her in a tavern in Lydius. Gor is a perilous world, and particularly so, perhaps, for beautiful women. It is seldom that they, if not protected by a city and a Home Stone, escape the slave collar, the brand, the chains of a master. Elizabeth’s act had been courageous. But she had lost her wager. I left her slave in Lydius, to the mercies of Sarpedon, the tavernkeeper, and his customers.
It had been, as I now thought, a mistake. It had been a mistake because Elizabeth had been quite pretty. I would have been a fool to return so pretty a wench to Earth. When I returned to Port Kar I would arrange for an agent to buy her, if she had not already been sold to one who lusted for her and could pay her price. I would have been a fool to return so pretty a wench to Earth, I mused. Yes, I would, if it were commercially feasible, buy her, and keep her on Gor as my own slave. I recalled that inmy first delirium, fighting the poison, long ago, I had wept, and, in my fevered ragings, had begged for her comfort, that she love me. That seemed to me now incredible, but I recalled it, clearly. But I had changed in the north. This time, in my delirium, the wench, I recalled, had figured quite differently. No longer, this time, did I call out to her, or beg for her comfort, or love. This time it had seemed I had seen her on a slave block, naked, under torchlight, guided by the whip, turning for buyers. I dreamed in the delirium I had purchased her. “Do not return me to Earth,” she had begged. “I willnot,” I told her. Then she had looked at me with horror, and I had, upon my return to my house, thrown her among my other slaves.
Ivar Forkbeard, with great strides, climbed the gangplank. Then, laughing, giggling, thrilled to be soon underway, approach;ng between two lines of seamen, came his slave girls. With them, less pleased, was the “golden girl,” she with dark hair, and earrings. She dallied. One of the seamen took her by the back of the neck and thrust her, running, stumbling, half up the gangplank. She, too, then, weeping, boarded the Forkbeard’s ship. “On your back,” said a seaman to her, “and lift your legs, ankles crossed.” The girl did so. He put the two piece, hinged, double ankle ring on her. This is a simple fetter, without links, holding the ankles crossed. It does not permit the girl to rise to her feet. When she had learned to be more pleasing, more radiant, her movements would be less restricted; I had little doubt that, by the time we reached Port Kar, she would be precisely what the Forkbeard wanted her to be. I looked at her. Our eyes met.
She looked down, tears in her eyes. I had used her. She was quite good. But it had taken longer to arouse her than is com mon in a slave girl. The Forkbeard, I, and the crew, would improve her. The trip south would be long. Whereas it com monly takes a third of an Ahn to arouse a free woman female slave is often responsive from almost the first touch of the master. Whythis should be I do not know. I suspec it is due, primarily, to two factors: the first is psychological The collar itself, and the state of bondage, for no reason clear in my mind, commonly transforms even the tepid free woman into an orgasmic marvel of a slave. Perhaps thefear to be whipped if they are not pleasing? Perhaps, be haviorally, given no choice but to act as a passionate female slave, they find, suddenly, through simple psychological relationshlps, they, to their horror, have become only a passionate female slave. Perhaps it is the knowing that they arerightless, owned, dominated, which so deeply, so incredibly trlggers the profound web of yielding, piteously receptive helplessly submitting reflexes; perhaps in the depth of theirbodies lies the secret need to be sexually subjugated, totally without which they cannot attain their full sexuality. I do not know. The second reason is presumably simple. It is merely that the female slave, abandoned, responsive, owned constantly at her master’s beck and call, ready constantlyfor his least pleasure, is frequently used. Female slaves are sometimes used, when the master’s time permits, three and four, or more, times a day. It is not unusual to give an entire day to sport with a female slave, something unthinkable with a free woman. The slave girl, of course, has no rights. She may be used for hours. What counts is not her will, bu her master’s. Frequent use of the female slave, I suspect keeps her body honed to submissive perfection. Whatever be the reasons, a common female slave, and one of no unusual heat for a slave, will be carried through a series of multiple yieldings, dozens, before the average free woman can be warmed. Then, when the master wishes, scorning perhaps her helplessness in his arms, despising perhaps, to her misery, her vulnerability to him, he takes ruthlessly, perhaps contemptuously, his delight with her. As a note, it might be added, that the slave female, in her master’s arms, must, if he so commands, under the threat of the whip or death, vocalize her sensations, then ventilating and reinforcing, multiplying, deepening,and increasing and intensifying them. Thus, cruelly, she is forced to help arouse herself and contribute to her own pleasures, and consequently, of course, those of the master. This command, sometimes, implicit, sometimes a matter of the master’s policy with his girl or girls, under which she is placed, to vocalize her pleasures, and abundantly, as well as, in her abandon, nudity, and beauty, manifest them physically, guides, accurately and surely, the master in the detailed exploitation of her weaknesses, in his depredations practiced on her body. She must betray herself. Do not blame her. No choice is given her. She is an instrument of passion on which he plays, delighting himself with the music of her expressions, her movements, her cries, even the wild, unrestrainable odors of her collared slave body. She is forced to contribute to her own sexual subjugation. Do not blame her. No choice is given her.